


Breaking Rule Four

by anupalya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Dean, Charlie Bradbury knows what's up, Coming Out, Dean Winchester Has a Panty Kink, Dean doesn't date men, Dean in Denial, F/F, F/M, From Sex to Love, Grad Student Dean, Homophobic Language, Light Dom/sub, Little sister Jo, M/M, Mechanic Dean, One Night Stands, Puppy eyes, Ratings might change, Socially Awkward Castiel (Supernatural), Supportive Sam, Switching, Top Castiel, Will Add More Tags as Appropriate, and a praise kink, really light, until he does
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11424594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anupalya/pseuds/anupalya
Summary: 1)	Don’t take a joint from a guy named Don.  In fact, no drugs in general, okay Sammy?2)	No dogs in the car.  Baby is a Lady, and she does not need drool and claws and hair all over her seats.3)	Always treat all hookups, dates, or significant others, no matter who they are, with respect.  That means, no matter how unsavory the circumstances, you get informed consent.  And finally,4)	Dean Winchester does not mess around with men.





	1. Dean Winchester does not mess around with men

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed, so let me know if you catch anything. Also, I HAVE NO PLAN. I am making this up as I go along. I saw a picture, got inspired, and this is the result. Enjoy <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 7/17/17:
> 
> Now that I have a better idea of where I'm going with this, I've added in Jo's name where appropriate.

Dean had a few cardinal rules.  Over the years, he hadn’t always been a model citizen, and some of the habits he had picked up from life with his dad had been difficult to shake.  Still, there were Four Cardinal Rules that Dean had promised himself he would always abide by, and made sure to hammer into Sam and Jo’s heads at the first available opportunity:

    1. Don’t take a joint from a guy named Don. In fact, no drugs in general, okay guys?
    2. No dogs in the car. Baby is a Lady, and she does not need drool and claws and hair all over her seats.
    3. Always treat all hookups, dates, or significant others, no matter who they are, with respect. That means, no matter how unsavory the circumstances, _you get informed consent._  And finally,
    4. __Dean Winchester does not mess around with men.__



 

Obviously, he had not told Sam and Jo about this last rule.  As far as his little brother was concerned, there were only Three Cardinal Rules, and Dean was determined that it stay that way.  His siblings did NOT need to know that Dean wasn’t exactly a Kinsey 0.

Which made Dean’s current predicament difficult to explain.  He definitely wouldn't have gone home with a guy if he'd been sober -- he was firmly in the closet and in the closet he would stay, thankyouverymuch. No need to get mixed up with society’s homophobic bullshit when he liked women just as well as men.  It was simpler to allow his bisexuality to express itself through an unhealthy obsession with Dr. Sexy, and reserve dating and sex for women.

Not that Dean thought that his friends and family wouldn’t be supportive – far from it.  Sammy would in all likelihood pull out the puppy eyes and try to talk about _feelings_ and get a damn pride flag to hang from his fire escape, while Benny, Jo, Charlie, Ash, Garth, and Victor would immediately begin cashing in on their bets (because no, contrary to popular belief, Dean was not stupid, and he knew full well that his friends had been betting on his sexuality for years).  Bobby and Ellen, who had practically been his parents since he was nine years old, would probably roll their eyes and grumble something along the lines of “good for you, princess,” and then slip him an extra slice of pie and hug him just a tad too long to be entirely fluffy-feelings-free.

Fluffy feelings and guaranteed support notwithstanding, _Dean did not mess around with men_.  After that fiasco with Gordon…but he didn’t want to think about that now.  Too much ugliness, too many memories…not to mention the stereotypes.  Dean knew that there was nothing wrong with being effeminate, for both men and women, but back during his tentative foray out of the closet, he had been flabbergasted by the assumptions made by strangers about his hobbies, personality, and even preferred sex positions.

Dean was secure in his masculinity; he had no problem with certain shades of pink in moderation, he cooed over puppies and babies, and a few lonely stay-at-home nights ago, he had discretely bought a few pairs of satiny, lacy panties that were carefully folded, wrapped in an old sweatshirt, and buried under a pile of dirty socks at the back of his closet.  What he couldn’t stand was being pigeonholed.  Yeah, he liked men.  Yeah, he liked bottoming and wearing panties.  Yeah, he loved being called “good boy” and having his hair petted and his cheeks kissed and…but anyway, it was irritating that anyone with any kind of inkling about his preferences assumed that he would speak with a lisp and have an entirely incomprehensible infatuation with glitter.  The raised brows and judgmental stares he had received once he revealed himself to be a loud, brash mechanic with a give ‘em hell attitude and _absolutely no patience_ for glitter ( _it gets EVERYWHERE_ ) had only encouraged him to pack up his luggage and walk himself right back into Narnia.

Technically, he knew that these had been bad experiences and were likely not indicative of the world at large, but it was too damn exhausting to deal with even the possibility of all that judgment and fucked up gender roles crap when he could just bury, suppress, and otherwise shove down his sexuality.  He could wear his sexy panties in the privacy of his own home and drool over the stars of crap medical dramas, and no one was the wiser.

Which was why, once he had recalled enough about the previous night (all while huddled miserably under unfamiliar blankets, trying to keep the light peeking through the curtains from skewering straight through his damn head) to realize that _oh yeah_ , TWO dicks had been involved, he briefly contemplated rigging up a parachute from his unknown paramour's ( _MALE paramour’s_ , his brain chirruped unhelpfully) bedsheets and escaping through the window.  Further inspection, however, left him feeling rather like a idiot ( _idjit_ , insisted his brain), since upon looking out said window, he realized that he was on the ground floor of what was evidently a pretty little cottage in a field of blatant middle-class suburbia. Complete with neat little hedges.

And backyard vegetable gardens.

And window boxes.

And...were those beehives in the backyard?!!

Melodramatic parachute-jump-of-shame averted, Dean began casting furtive glances about the bedroom, pausing to wince at the slight twinge in his ass that spoke of residual good times and generally unwise decisions.  Resolving to get dressed as quickly as possible and _get the hell out of there_ , he nearly missed the fact that there were two sets of clothes scattered throughout the bedroom – after all, he was too busy puzzling out how exactly his boxer-briefs had ended up dangling from a lampshade in the corner.  Once his brain caught up, he stumbled to a halt, one leg still hanging out of last night’s jeans, to the realization that _of course_ the guy’s clothes were still here, _this was his house_!

He hoped.

Firmly closing his mind to the possibility that he and his one-night stand had inadvertently broken into the wrong house ( _because wouldn’t that just be the kicker_ ) Dean returned to the matter at hand.  The guy was probably still at home, because who leaves their own house while a stranger is sleeping in their bed?  Dean found himself growing irrationally frustrated by this entirely reasonable display of self-preservation and household security, because sneaking out was now going to be that much harder.  Oh, why couldn’t he have woken up first?

A quick peek into the bathroom revealed no hints about his host’s whereabouts, and after quickly using the facilities himself, Dean slowly and carefully finished dressing as silently as he could manage, cursing himself under his breath when he knocked over a wicker laundry basket.  Because his suburban, bee-keeping, gay mystery lover had a _wicker laundry basket_ .  Great, so the one guy who managed to circumvent Dean’s self-imposed closed-for-assfucking embargo also apparently had his life together enough that he went around buying things like _wicker laundry baskets_ and was likely miles out of his league.  Perfect.

Not that he had been planning to pursue the guy.  Just…it stung a bit.

Completely dressed in all but his shoes, which Dean really, REALLY hoped were by the front door, Dean tiptoed down the hallway, pausing to gawk at the artwork adorning the walls.  Dean’s knowledge of visual art was limited to the generic landscapes found in the motels of his early childhood, before he and Sam had been taken in by Bobby and Ellen.  These, however, were a far cry from the bland, overly saccharine farmhouses and forest streams.  These were abstracts, all movement and color and undefined shapes that each seemed to evoke a different visceral reaction.  Peering closely, Dean caught the tiny “A.E.” printed at the bottom of each canvas.

Shaking himself, he continued making his way through the house, wincing at the light pouring in through the artfully furnished living room and spotting the front door – and his shoes – in relief.  Now, the final stretch.

Dean made his way past the living room, clinging to the walls in a likely futile attempt to make himself less conspicuous.  So focused was he on his virtually nonexistent stealth tactics that he failed to notice the low, slightly off-key humming until he glanced through the door on his left…

…and his brain came to a screeching halt.

Dean’s senses were assaulted by an avalanche of the sights, sounds, and smells as his preoccupation with _getting the hell out of there_ gave way to a simple litany of _holy fuck, holy fuck, holy FUCK!_  Because standing before him, back to the door, was the most beautiful ass Dean had ever seen.

Framed by the most gorgeous waistline Dean had ever seen.

Compounded by the most stunning set of shoulders Dean had ever seen.

Which were attached to the most delightful arms Dean had ever seen.

Which led sinuously down to the most perfect hands Dean had ever seen.

Which were _frying bacon_.

Dean gulped.

The man ( _oh please God let this be the mystery lover from last night_ ) was clad only in a pair of soft-looking grey lounge pants that were draped loosely over runner’s thighs and that _firm, round ass_ , with a Calvin Klein label peeping out from the back.  He was well-muscled, but not overly so, like the juiceheads that had occasionally hit on Dean in his younger, prettier days.  The man’s skin was tanned, with light freckles here and there, and his neck, which was bent over the stove, was long and graceful.  His black hair spoke of a wild romp in the sheets, and Dean found himself grinning proudly at the knowledge that _he had done that_ , before remembering, oh yeah, _he didn’t mess around with guys_ , and letting the smirk slide from his face.

The man was still humming in a low gravelly voice, barely audible over the sizzle of the bacon (and really, how had Dean not smelled that coming down the hall?!) swinging his hips in a happy little dance to the tune, and Dean found himself watching him sway, mesmerized.  Some part of his brain was still clamoring that he needed to _get out now_ , but it was faint, as if being shouted over a long distance.  The rest of Dean’s brain, including his – ahem – downstairs brain, was content to bask in the aroma and delectable sizzle of bacon, the adorable ( _yes, adorable, shut up Sammy!_ ) humming, and the sway…sway…sway…

The man turned.

Dean’s eyes snapped up to lock on a startled electric blue gaze, all previous contentedness forgotten as every fear and insecurity came tumbling back with a roar.  Rule Number Four was dying a screaming death, and yet he found himself unable to move, pinned under the scrutiny of those terrifyingly beautiful eyes.  He was dimly aware of the heat rising to his cheeks, and he yanked his gaze downward, revealing a yet more acres of toned, unfairly beautiful skin.  He blushed harder, and looked back up.

The man hadn’t moved yet, apparently still frozen in surprise.  Now that the initial shock had worn off, Dean examined the not-quite stranger’s face.  Dark stubble dotted an angular jaw and slightly cleft chin.  Those stunning eyes that had held Dean rooted to the spot sat above high, sculpted cheekbones, a narrow, slightly aquiline nose, and plush, chapped lips.  A tongue peeked out to wet the bottom lip, and then Dean watched, fascinated, as a wide, gummy smile slowly crept onto the man’s face, eyes crinkling, his entire being exuding warmth.  It was, Dean thought faintly, like watching day break over a deep, vibrant sea.

The man moved with an easy grace, gesturing towards the stove with his right hand, which Dean belatedly realized was still holding a pair of tongs.

“How do you like your eggs?” he intoned in the same deep, gravelly voice that Dean hazily remembered whispering filth into his ear the night before.

Dean swallowed.

_Son of a bitch._


	2. The morning after a drunken hookup is awkward as fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) Bert and Ernie are gay.
> 
> 2) Pie is the greatest accomplishment of humankind, forever and ever, amen.
> 
> 3) Sammy will one day save the world in a fit of organic-grass-fed brainpower, while Jo punched the Nazis into submission. And finally,
> 
> 4) The morning after a drunken hookup is awkward as fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? You guys convinced me! Thank you all for so much support and so many lovely comments and kudos! I'm getting back into creative writing! Throw a party!!
> 
> My muse just would not leave me alone. And, just so y'all understand, my muse is an imaginary four-inch-tall critter who looks suspiciously like Gabriel wearing a chiton, and he likes to ride around in my coat pocket, whispering Destiel thoughts into my ear at inappropriate times.
> 
> It is courtesy of all of you, and Pixie Gabe, that this has now become a multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Onward!
> 
> EDIT 7/17/17:
> 
> Now that I have a better idea of where I'm going with this, I've added in Jo's name where appropriate.

There are rules, simple rules, that govern the universe.  Some are instinctively known to us, while others form slowly, accumulated through years of experience and adhering to the edges of our minds like sediment deposits on the banks of a river.  Still others hit us when we least expect it, with all the forewarning of having an octopus dropped on one’s head from a great height.

Dean, with all the experience afforded by his twenty-seven years, was more-or-less familiar with many such Universal Rules.  They shaped his perspective, acting as measurements along the edge of his moral compass, immutable, indisputable, unshakable.  Four such rules were:

    1. Bert and Ernie are gay.
    2. Pie is the greatest accomplishment of humankind, forever and ever, amen.
    3. Sammy will one day save the world in a fit of organic-grass-fed brainpower, while Jo punched the Nazis into submission. And finally,
    4. __The morning after a drunken hookup is awkward as fuck.__



 

Clearly, this beautiful stranger had missed the memo on that last one.

Dean stood there, gaping at last night’s hookup ( _MALE hookup_ , his upstairs brain screeched, before his downstairs frantically brain told it to hush) attempting to process that this half-naked, beautiful specimen, was _calmly taking his breakfast order after having pounded him into the mattress the night before_.  The entire situation was bordering on levels of absurdity usually reserved for modern politics.

Uncertainty had begun to erode the edges of the man’s smile, and he now set the tongs down and took a step forward, a crease appearing between his eyes as he gazed at Dean with concern.  “Are you all right?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it, mortified to realize that his cheeks were still burning, the flush now likely reaching the tips of his ears.  Somewhere at the back of his mind, he registered that he was still _very_ hungover, but the throbbing in his head and churning in his stomach seemed unimportant when pinned under the man’s scrutiny.  He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Um, yeah man, I, uh…” _Smooth, Dean._  He took a deep breath, allowing his eyes to briefly flutter shut to give a momentary respite from staring at the angel before him.  It was like looking into the sun, he absently mused, and Dean was almost worried that his eyes would burn out if he looked for too long.  He shook his head quickly, deciding firmly that it was too damn early for metaphors, then winced as the throbbing intensified with the jerky movement.

When he opened his eyes, however, Dean received another shock – while he had been collecting himself, the man had advanced another few feet and was now standing about half a step in front of him, brilliant blue eyes now peering closely into Dean’s own.  Dean yelped and stumbled backwards, and he would have collided with the doorframe had the man’s right hand not shot out to grip his left arm, just below the shoulder.

“Are you sure you are well?  You seem a bit disoriented.”  The man frowned slightly, studying Dean’s face as if he meant to derive the secrets of the universe from the patterns in Dean’s freckles.  He then tilted his head slightly in a display of altogether too much cuteness for someone already so sexy.  Fuck, Dean was so screwed.

“Perhaps you need something to eat?”  The man perked up again, the bounce returning to his step as he gently ushered the uncharacteristically pliant Dean to a little breakfast table and carefully deposited him onto one of the chairs.  Dean absently noted with some bemusement that the man was now treating him as if he were a delicate artifact.  Perhaps his unexpected tenderness was justified, considering Dean’s inability to form a coherent sentence or remain upright; however, it was rather at odds with the enthusiastic fucking from the night before.

The man had begun puttering about his kitchen again, setting eggs on the counter and reaching up to grab another pan from the pot rack.  The light from the high windows created a soft, sweet glow against his exposed skin, and Dean found himself watching, mesmerized, as the man poured a glass of orange juice and began walking back towards him.

“Here.”  The man had stopped before Dean and held out the glass of juice.  “Drink this.  It will make you feel better.”  Dean blinked, suddenly realizing that he was in fact quite thirsty, and gratefully accepted the glass.  The man watched with a soft smile as Dean downed the orange juice, quietly taking the glass from him when he was done and placing it in the sink.

He had been right; Dean was feeling a little better.  He supposed that the sugar in the orange juice had done the trick, remembering Ellen once mentioning something about sugar being good for shock.  He was still hungover, for certain, but the blue-gaze-induced fuzziness and general what-the-fuckery had cleared up considerably.

Now having slightly regained his bearings, he glanced about the kitchen again, no less flabbergasted by this turn of events, but more capable of coherent thought.  He took in the cherry cabinets and stainless steel appliances, impressed despite himself at the granite countertops and hardwood floors.  More interesting, however, were the details; a much-loved set of recipe books in the corner by the toaster, the well-worn floral potholders suspended on a hook by the side of the fridge, and the antique-looking table that he was now seated at with a little salt-and-pepper shaker set in the shape of a cow and a chicken, surrounded by little woven placemats.

The man’s rumbling voice cut through Dean’s examination of his placemat.  “I’m just going to make some scrambled eggs.  It’s the fastest way I know how to make them, and we’d best get some food in you quickly.  The bacon’s just about done, too.”

Dean cleared his throat.  “Thanks man, I really appreciate it--” the words _but I really should be going_ died in his throat as the man _beamed_ at him from his place at the stove.

Dean tried again.  “Listen, dude…” and he trailed off again.  “Um…I’m really sorry about this, but I was really drunk last night, so I’m a little…fuzzy?  Some of the details, just…” the man was frowning at him again.

“What details?”

“Ummm…” _crap_. “Your name?” Dean winced.

The man squinted again, then chuckled.  “You don’t recall my name because I never gave it to you.  We were a bit preoccupied at the time.”  A quirk of the eyebrow.  “Nor did you give me yours, although I was hoping to have that honor now?”  Almost shyly, the man glanced down at the eggs, and flicked his eyes back up with a quirk of his mouth. “I’m Castiel.”

 _Huh.  Cool name_.  Dean rubbed the back of his neck.  “I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean.”  Castiel held his gaze for another second before he began plating the eggs and bacon, pausing only to grab a knife and fork for each of them before bringing both plates over to the little breakfast table.

Dean was going to tell him.  He was totally going to tell him, any minute now.  He’d look this man, Castiel, straight in the eye, and say _hey, I had a great time last night, but I really have to go.  Thank you for the juice, but I don’t mess around with guys.  I was drunk and stupid last night, and I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced by this whole thing.  By the way, I knocked over your laundry basket._  But when he peeked up at Castiel, now setting down a plateful of bacon and eggs on the little woven placemat before him, what he blurted out instead was:

“How the hell are you not hungover?”  Because really, Castiel was altogether too happy for having drunk so much the night before.

Castiel started, perhaps at the unexpected forcefulness in Dean’s tone, and relaxed again with a sheepish grin.

“I was in rather terrible shape when I woke this morning.  I had a bit of an upset stomach, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I used the bathroom in the hall.  Would you pass the pepper?  It’s the chicken-shaped one.”

Dean dutifully handed over the pepper-shaker and absently watched Cas apply it liberally to his eggs.  “But you’re so…” he waved a hand, “chipper?”

“I ate a few saltines and had some Excedrin.  Coconut water, too, because of the electrolytes.  It always makes me feel better.  I would have offered you some as well, but not everyone likes it, so I figured orange juice was a safer bet, especially considering you looked like you were about to fall over.  I didn’t want to waste time trying to figure out your preferences.”

“I _did_ fall over.” Dean reminded him, nibbling a bit at the bacon.  Castiel grinned.

“I’ll get you that Excedrin once you’ve eaten,” he said decisively.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you some before, but I wanted to get some good food in you first.  I’d rather you didn’t take Excedrin on an empty stomach, since that always makes me a bit jittery.”  Dean smiled back a bit shyly, looking up from where he’d tucked his head down over his plate, only to scowl back at his eggs when he realized that he’d been fluttering his eyelashes like a goddamn Disney princess.

It hit him then, though, that between one forkful of eggs and the next, Dean had completely forgotten to be awkward.  Again, he held his tongue not wanting to be the jerk that wiped the smile from Castiel’s face, and _God,_ Dean was _such a pushover_ , but now that Castiel had sat down, Dean couldn’t bring himself to walk out on this _sweet, perfect_ man who was now asking if Dean was feeling better now and did he think the bacon turned out alright?  Dean gave a stuttered reply that yes, he was better now and the bacon was delicious, thank you, and Castiel’s answering smile, rather than setting Dean on edge, instead coaxed out another tentative smile of his own.

And from there, it was a lost cause.  Somehow, Dean managed to forget his trepidation and his hangover and the fact that _he did not mess around with guys_ in favor of generously sprinkling his eggs with pepper from the chicken-shaped shaker.  All previous thoughts of escaping were swept away by Castiel’s enthusiasm and the admittedly fantastic meal.  Instead, Dean found himself chatting amiably with his very male drunken hookup over eggs and bacon.  The easy chatter almost felt _too_ easy, but Dean was in no state to question it, since every time Castiel’s eyes glanced up and met his own, he couldn’t help but relax just a little bit more, his earlier tension all but forgotten.

“I’m an accountant,” Castiel was saying, with a little self-deprecating laugh.  “Not the most glamorous job, I know, but I like numbers and patterns and such, and I like helping people manage their businesses.”

“Nah, man, that’s cool.  I wouldn’t have the patience to crunch numbers all day, so I bet you must be pretty smart if you can.”  And Dean meant it, too, because _of course_ Castiel had to be intelligent as well as kind and considerate and in possession of quirky salt-and-pepper shakers and _beehives_ and _freaking wicker laundry baskets_.  Again, Dean felt a pang at the knowledge that this man was out of his league.

“What do you do all day, then, if not crunch numbers?” Castiel asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m a mechanic, but, uh…” _crap._  Dean blamed Castiel’s hypnotic eyes for lulling him into a false sense of security.  Damn, why’d he have to slip like that?  Castiel would likely have been satisfied with _I’m a mechanic_.

“But what?”  Castiel looked a little perplexed by Dean’s hesitation.  Oh well, it wasn’t like Dean was going to ever see the guy again.  Might as well.

“I’ve been working on my Master’s for a while.  It’s been a few years, but I’m working full-time, so…” Dean scratched at the back of his head.

“Dean, that’s wonderful!  What are you studying?”  And damn if Castiel didn’t look genuinely curious.

“Um…education.  I, uh, I kinda want to be an elementary school teacher.”  Dean winced.  Here it came, the what the hell would a _rude, brash grease monkey like you have to teach kids?_  Back when he was with Gordon…well, the man had laughed when Dean had confessed that he had been thinking about switching majors to get a teaching certificate during his undergrad. _Dean_ , he had said, _you know I like you a lot, but I’m just not sure you’re the kind of guy.  Oh don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean.  You’re all, grease-under-fingernails, rough, y’know…I just can’t see you bein’ all respectable in a classroom, molding young minds and shit.  C’mon, you do what you’re good at!  You’ve already got a great thing going at your uncle’s, and once you have your degree, you can help him out even more with managing the place.  Just…don’t try to be something you’re not, okay?  Now c’mon, we’ll be late._

And that had been that.  Dean had gotten a Bachelor’s Degree in business management, which he had put to work at Bobby’s garage.  And hell, he loved working as a mechanic, he really did, but…he didn’t want to do it every day for the rest of his life.  It had been two years before he had realized that Gordon’s _opinions_ about Dean’s career prospects had been the exact same kind of shit that had chased him back into the closet – people thinking that because they knew one side of him, they could put him in a neat little box and wrap it up with string.  It had been a true epiphany the night he had realized, alone in his apartment and watching the Great British Baking show, of all things, that in the same way that he could be both a loud, brash mechanic with no patience for glitter and a panty-wearing, Dr. Sexy-watching bisexual man, he could also be both a skilled grease monkey and a second-grade teacher.  People could tell him that these facets of his personality were mutually exclusive if they wanted; he, in turn, could tell them to go fuck themselves.

Not his sexuality, though.  He wasn’t quite ready to make that knowledge public just yet.  Not after what happened last time.  But going back for his Master’s…well, he could handle that.

So one night, he had approached Bobby after closing the garage and had hesitantly, after much prompting from the old curmudgeon, whispered his aspirations.  From there, Bobby and Ellen had practically kicked his ass into the GRE testing room, and now, here he was, taking classes at KU and working full-time at Bobby’s to pay for it.  Sammy, of course, had been delighted, and Dean had been subjected to a night of puppy eyes and _I’m so proud of you’s_ and floppy-haired, gangly-limbed hugs.  His friends, of course, had clapped him on the back, done a few celebratory shots, and promptly informed him that he showed up for Game Night when he had homework to be doing, they would all collectively kick his ass.

Still, despite the overwhelming support, the old insecurities remained.  Gordon’s voice had managed to worm its way into Dean’s subconscious, long after Dean had cut ties and basically told Gordon to _get the hell out of his life_.  And although he didn’t always mean to, John Winchester had always been particularly good at exacerbating Dean’s insecurities.

Which was how, after his biological father’s latest in a series of sporadic visits to assuage his guilt for dumping Sam and Dean with Bobby and Ellen’s seventeen years ago, Dean had found himself drinking alone, before Castiel had found him.

Speaking of which, Castiel was beaming again.  “Oh Dean, you would make a wonderful teacher!” _wait, what?_  “From what you told me last night about your little brother and sister--” _aw hell, he hadn’t told the guy his name but he’d told him all about Sammy and Jo?  Jesus Christ…_ “—I think you’d be very good with children!”

Dean’s throat unexpectedly tightened at this unchecked show of support from a complete stranger.  True, had had played Genital Tetris with this stranger last night, but Castiel didn’t know anything about Dean, and yet he still seemed to wholeheartedly believe in him.  Dean stared down at his plate, biting his lip.

A tentative hand on his had him looking back up into worried blue eyes.  “Did I upset you?” Castiel asked softly.  Dean grimaced and quickly shook his head.

“Ah, no, no, of course not!”  He quickly reassured the other man.  “Just, you know…my head.”

“Oh, of course, let me get you that Excedrin—“

“It’s okay, no need to rush—“

“—just over here somewhere—“

“—really Cas, I’m fine—“

“—I found—wait, Cas?”

 _Oh_.  “Heh, yeah, sorry.  I, uh…I give people nicknames, and…it’s okay, I’ll call you Castiel—“

“No, no!  I like it.”  Castiel looked thoughtful.  “My older brothers call me ‘Cassie,’ and I never thought it suited me much.”  Dean looked him over.

“Yeah, you’re much more of a ‘Cas’ than a ‘Cassie.’”  Cas blushed under Dean’s scrutiny and handed over the Excedrin.

“Would you like plain water or coconut water to wash it down?  I didn’t ask before, but you seem a good deal more coherent now.”  Now it was Dean’s turn to blush, remembering his earlier awkwardness.

“I’ve never had coconut water, but if you think it could gank this hangover, I’d be willing to try it.”

While Cas fetched him some coconut water, Dean glanced down at his bare feet.  Breakfast was pretty much over now, and he would have to go soon.  Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find that he didn’t want to leave.

Cas returned with a glass of refrigerated coconut water, which he placed into Dean’s hand before stepping back to watch, expectantly.  This was more comfortable than Dean might have expected; after a morning spent under Cas’s scrutiny, Dean found that he was oddly comfortable under his unwavering gaze.  It was less like being examined, as he had initially thought, and more like being watched over, as a guardian angel might.  It was with considerably less self-consciousness, then, that Dean popped two Excedrin tablets into his mouth and took a tentative sip of the coconut water.  He swallowed, then frowned down at the glass.

“Is it not good?” came Cas’s voice.

“No, it’s…it’s different, but not bad.  Sweet.”  Dean took another, larger sip.  “I kinda like it.”  Cas sighed in relief, and Dean glanced over at him fondly.

“Were you that worried I wouldn’t like it?” he asked, amused.  Cas scowled.

“My sister calls it ‘that nauseating hipster crap.’”  Dean winced, recalling the number of times he had carelessly slung similar phrases at Sam.   _Oh God, Sammy!_  If Sam ever found out that Dean had drunk _coconut water_ , he would berate him for the rest of his days for being a hypocrite.  He told Cas as much.

“Well then,” Cas laughed, leaning forward conspiratorially and dropping his voice to a whisper, “we must ensure that Sam never knows.”

Dean frowned again.  Sam would never know, because Dean was never going to tell him, and Cas was never going to tell him, because Sam and Cas would never meet, just like Jo and Cas would never meet, because Dean was never going to see Cas again.  He quickly finished his drink and set the glass down on the table.

“Look, Cas, I had a great time, but I really do have to go now.”  Cas’s face fell so quickly it would have been comical, if Dean hadn’t felt so guilty.  “Not that I want to,” because he really didn’t, “but, um…I can’t…”

“You don’t mess around with guys?”  Cas asked quietly.  Dean stared.   _How…?_

“I think you mentioned it last night.”  Cas shifted a bit uncomfortably.  “I had assumed that you had changed your mind, since you did come home with me after all, and you seemed to like it…”

“No, yeah, I did!”  Dean all but yelped, before blushing yet _again_ and staring at Cas’s feet.  “I just…I’m not out, and I…there’s history, okay?  I just…I can’t…”  He chanced a glance back up to find Cas now staring at him with more curiosity than hurt, brows pinched together.

“History?”  Dean pursed his lips and looked away.

A hand on his left shoulder had him looking back up again at Cas’s soft, understanding expression.  “It’s okay, Dean.”  He said quietly.  “You don’t have to tell me.”   _Oh damn, he looks so…_

“We could be friends!” Dean blurted.

_wait_

…

_What?!_

…

_Crap._

Cas’s eyes narrowed.

“Friends?”

“Yeah, you know, buddies.  Pals.”

“But you don’t…” Dean huffed a laugh.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have guy _friends_ , Cas.  I mean, yeah, we fucked once, but we don’t have to do that again, right?  Just, hang out.  You know, buddy stuff.”

“Buddy…stuff,” Cas repeated slowly, testing out the shape of the words on his tongue.

“Yeah!” Dean nodded with a touch more enthusiasm than required.   _What am I doing what am I doing what am I doing_

“I’m not…” Cas paused.  “I’m not very good at buddy stuff, Dean.  My only ‘buddies’ are my siblings, and only because I’ve known them long enough to not be too awkward around them. Otherwise, I'm...”  He crossed him arms slightly, an almost defensive gesture.  Dean squinted.

“But you’re so…” Dean thought back to Cas’s effortless grace as he moved around the kitchen, the easy way he made conversation smiled across the breakfast table and cared for Dean while he suffered from the effects of last night’s drinking…the way he had skillfully manhandled Dean the night before until he was screaming, begging…

Cas smiled self-deprecatingly.  “Perhaps because we’ve already seen each other drunk and naked, but I’ve rather forgotten to be nervous and awkward around you.  Perhaps we skipped past it all while drunk.”  He glanced up and Dean from under his eyelashes.  “It seems that you put me quite at ease.”

In that moment, Dean wanted nothing more than to pull Cas in for a hug.  He quickly tamped down on that sudden, inexplicable urge and instead cleared his throat again, and said, “we don’t have to do anything special, Cas.  Just more of this,” he gestured vaguely between them, “just minus the…you know…”

“The fucking?”

“The—yeah, the fucking.”   _oh my God what am I doing what am I doing_

Cas tilted his head, as though he were considering Dean’s proposal carefully. He paused, then slowly nodded as a small smile crept back onto his face. God, Dean hadn't realized how much he had missed that smile until it had returned, settling back into the fine lines around Cas's eyes and rounding out his sharp features.

“All right.  If you think we could.”

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Don’t worry about it.  You…well, you put me at ease too.”

Cas beamed.

_Oh fuck, what have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case y'all haven't guessed, the multifaceted nature of individual identities is a major theme in this work. Dean hates being pigeonholed, and so do I. Don't let people tell you that the various aspects of your personality are mutually exclusive.
> 
> Also, I've kind of had a love affair with coconut water ever since it cut my migraine recovery time in half.
> 
> Remember, your comments bring me joy!


	3. Hindsight is always 20/20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) You can lead a horse to water, but you can never make it drink.
> 
> 2) Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched.
> 
> 3) Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there isn’t a fire in the furnace. And finally,
> 
> 4) Hindsight is always 20/20.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things -- one, since this story takes place in current times, and Dean is 27 years old (I'm changing that in previous chapters as well, since I had put him as 26, before) I'm messing with birth years a bit. Dean was born in 1990, Sam in 1994, and Jo in 1995. Sound good? Okay.
> 
> Two, now that I know where I'm going with this story, I've had to go back and add Jo's name to the previous chapters. You'll see why. Really, nothing's changed, other than Jo is mentioned alongside Sam, where appropriate.
> 
> Three, I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events. I love them very, very dearly, though.
> 
> All right, let's go! Now up: more Dean backstory! (after this, a chapter from Cas's POV, and then things will FINALLY start to move forward!)

Proverbs are rules, of a sort.  They are wisdom, born of experience and intuition, wrapped up sweetly in little packages of witticism, syrup, and snark.  They are fun to recite, but irritating as all hell when recited back at you, with the smug smile of one who _totally saw your last mistake coming a mile away, dude._ Proverbs pose an interesting duality of self-deprecating acknowledgement of one’s own mistakes and the schoolyard _I told you so_ when presented when anyone else’s.

Human nature being what it is, every society has developed multitudinous ways to express the unique sentiment of Proverb.  Four well-known instances are:

    1. You can lead a horse to water, but you can never make it drink.
    2. Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched.
    3. Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there isn’t a fire in the furnace.  And finally,
    4. __Hindsight is always 20/20.__



Dean took great exception to that last one.

After their father had dumped Sam and Dean with Bobby and his (at the time) new wife, Ellen, and stepdaughter, Jo, Dean had done his very, very best to prove that he could be good, that he could take care of Sammy, so that his Dad would be proud of him when he came back.  He had never even taken seconds at meals unless explicitly offered, no matter how his eyes lingered on the serving dish, and had instead insisted that Sammy and Jo (of whom he was quickly becoming just as fiercely protective) take what they needed.

It hadn’t been until Bobby had sat him down privately, one night after dinner, and gently explained to him that _he_ was a growing boy, just like “the kids,” and there would always be enough for _all three of them_ to eat as much as they wanted, that Dean had begun to shyly request seconds (and later, thirds) at dinner.  The way Dean’s eyes had bugged out during that conversation, however, had said quite enough about had John had raised his boys -- or rather, how Dean had raised Sam, at the cost of his own welfare.  Bobby and Ellen had confessed their worries and their suspicions to each other later that night, after the children were put to bed, and they had both decided that what Dean needed was to get out of his own head for a bit.

The next day, Ellen had approached Dean immediately after breakfast and told him to put on something nicer than his usual playclothes and meet her out by the car.  Dean, intrigued and slightly wary, had dressed himself in the new clothes that Bobby had bought for them the day after they had arrived and bundled himself down to the garage.  The ride to Downtown Lawrence had been filled with worry, which had immediately dispelled into confusion when they had pulled into the parking lot of the Lawrence Public Library.  From there, Ellen had ushered a subdued Dean into the building and parked him in the Children’s Section with firm orders to pick something.

Dean had been about to dash off to the Comic Book shelf, because _Batman_ , but a book on display had caught his eye:   _A Series of Unfortunate Events,_ it had read, with the title proclaiming this particular book to be _The Bad Beginning_.  Dean had snorted despite himself and taken the book down.  A crease had appeared between his eyes at the absurdity of the summary on the back cover, before he had decided that he might as well, and brought it over for approval.  Ellen had raised her brows a bit at the pessimistic title, but had agreed to put the book on her card.

It had been easier for nine-year-old Dean to justify reading if he was reading out loud to his baby brother and new baby sister, since when he had read quietly to himself, he hadn’t been able to drown out the vague echo of his father’s voice, growling at him to _put the book down, Dean, I’m gonna be out late and your brother ain’t gonna feed himself._ Technically, Dean had known that his father hadn’t meant that he could _never_ read, but taking so much time for himself had left him uneasy, even when both he and his siblings were all being well taken care of, courtesy of Bobby and Ellen.  Thus, he had sat with five-year-old Sam and four-year-old Jo, reading aloud to them for hours of the Baudelaires’ misfortunes.

Sam hadn’t understood much of the book’s dark humor at the time, although he had become very quiet when the Baudelaires’ parents had perished in the fire.  Dean had almost stopped reading at that point, but he had just _had_ to know that the Baudelaires would be all right.   _They could make it, right?  They could turn out okay, anyway._ So he had forced himself to continue, swallowing lumps in his throat every time the fire was mentioned, but relentlessly reading on, desperate to prove to himself that kids whose parents had been killed in fires could still be okay.

Jo had understood even less of the book, but had giggled at the funny voices Dean had used for Mr. Poe and Count Olaf and the various members of the horrendous theatre troupe. She had already begun to adore her new big brothers, and would snuggle up to them and just _listen_ as Dean read on and on and on, blissfully unaware that Ellen was taking sneaky photos of their puppy pile.

 _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ became a tradition in the Singer-Harvelle-Winchester household.  Every time a new book came out, Dean would read it aloud, long after it was socially acceptable to snuggle with one’s siblings.  No matter how on-the-outs they were (and Sam and Jo’s constant bickering ensured that that happened at least once a week), they would pile together without fail to hear Dean read about the increasingly miserable lives of the Baudelaire children.

At first, Ellen and Bobby, while listening in to these storytime sessions, had worried that the pessimistic nature of these books would sink Dean further into his own head.  However, after a time, it seemed as if they had done the opposite.  The lesson Dean had seemed to be taking from the trials of the Baudelaires was that _yeah, shit happens to good people, but as long as they have each other, they’ll be okay._ No matter how dangerous, terrifying, or absurd the adventures ofthet three heroes, they always managed to save each other by relying on their own skills and taking care of their siblings, even if it meant making increasingly morally ambiguous choices in the name of love.  Dean had even begun to draw parallels between his own family and the Baudelaire siblings by the time he was twelve, with himself as Violet, the eldest, most mechanically-minded sibling (he was already showing promise as a mechanic under Bobby’s tutelage), Sam as Klaus, the middle child and brilliant bookworm, and Jo as Sunny, the baby of the family and the “biter” (Jo didn't bite, but at seven years old, she was a year into karate training and had begun to show a worrisome level of interest in her mother's knives).

It was while Dean had been reading book eleven, _The Grim Grotto_ , out loud to Sam and Jo, that his first _Hindsight is always 20/20_ moment had hit him.  He had been in the middle of Carmelita Spats’s dance recital, and Sam and Jo had been snorting their amusement as Dean had punctuated Carmelita’s off-pitch caterwauling by sloppily blowing raspberries, intending to replicate the “wet slap” of the “tagliatelle grande.”  Dean had been giggling between raspberries as well, but the three of them had simultaneously given up on containing their laughter had all collapsed all in a heap, breathless with laughter and with tears streaming down their faces.  That was when it had happened. 

In the book, the children being whipped with the tagliatelle grande had insisted that the sensation was indeed a “wet slap” and not a “sting” -- a dull _whump,_ mildly uncomfortable, a strange, briefly shocking sensation, much what one would expect being hit by a giant noodle would feel like.  Dean, who had never been hit by a giant noodle in his life (and never would be, if he had anything to say about it), nevertheless had felt a phantom _whump_ as he had lain there with his siblings, tears of hysteria streaming down all three of their faces.   Something had finally, _finally_ clicked into place after five years of quietly, subconsciously nursing the desperate hope that Dad would deem his children worthy, and coming back for them.

_Abandoning them had been the best thing John Winchester had ever done for his children._

Dean didn’t have to please John anymore.  He didn’t have to be Sammy’s parent and make sure he got fed, because that wasn’t a fifteen-year-old’s job.  He didn’t have to be some hypermasculine child-soldier, hiding the fact that he liked baking and the color pink for fear of his father’s disgust.  He had the best baby sister in the world (although he’d never tell her so), and he was about to start high school with no fear of moving three weeks in.  Dean had a family, and a home, and love, and that would never change.

Dean’s new tears of exaltation and relief had mingled with the tears of laugher already streaked down his face, his raucous crowing devolving into sobs.  Sam and Jo, upon noticing the change, had become alarmed, Jo dashing off to find their parents, while Sam had practically draped himself across Dean’s shaking back in an attempt to soothe his brother.  Ellen and Bobby had practically flown up to the house at Jo’s shrieks of “GUYS HELP DEAN’S CRYING FOR NO REASON!!” and had sandwiched Dean in between them, holding him tight.  Piece by piece, they had pried Dean’s realization out of him, Dean apologizing profusely for not seeing it sooner and Bobby just barely managing to bite back the _idjit_ that had threatened to leave his tongue (Ellen glaring over Dean’s head at him had helped).

Cocooned between them, quite worn out, Dean had sleepily asked if he could start referring to the two of them as his parents.  Not “Mom” and “Dad,” since those monikers would forever be associated with Mary and John Winchester, but “Ma” and “Pops,” perhaps?

This time, Bobby hadn’t bitten back the _idjit_ while voicing his approval.  Ellen had merely kissed Dean’s head and held him tight.

Sam had been elated to follow Dean’s lead and start referring to Ellen and Bobby as “Ma” and “Pops,” while Jo (sticking to Mommy and Daddy) had knocked them both over the head and had proclaimed, to their amusement, that it was “about damn time!”  Which, of course, had led to a lecture from Ellen about swearing -- Ellen didn't have a problem with swearing herself, but she would be damned if her children used curse words before they could understand their meanings or implications. 

From that point on, however, Dean would forever associate the clarity of every _hindsight is always 20/20_ moment with the dull, wet slap of the tagliatelle grande.  Such moments of clarity usually went something like this:

_Whump_

_Dean’s obsession with Dr. Sexy and Harrison Ford, not to mention the way he kept staring at Aaron Bass’s ass in Calculus, probably meant that he was attracted to men._

_…_

_Whump_

_Dean’s apathy at the thought of running Bobby’s garage for the rest of his life, despite how much he enjoyed rebuilding engines and taking care of his baby, probably meant that he didn’t actually want to be a mechanic._

_…_

_Whump_

_Gordon Walker was a piece of shit._

 

Which was why, as Dean fumbled for bus fare, he kept bracing himself for that inevitable _whump_ and the knowledge of _exactly_ what he should have done this morning.

Because offering to be friends with a drunken male hookup wasn’t a good idea, was it?

It couldn’t be.

Dean winced as his knees hit the back of the seat in front of him.  He despised riding the bus.  It was too cramped, too smelly, too full of half-awake strangers...stil, better to ride the busthen have discovered that he had driven the Impala drunk last night.  He perched at the edge of his seat, squished uncomfortably against the window to make room for the older woman sitting beside him.  He sighed quietly, not wanting to appear rude or irritated; it wasn’t _her_ fault that he was over six feet tall, after all.

Unbidden, a fuzzy memory from the night before of Cas holding him down as he slowly fucked into him drifted to the forefront of his mind.  Dean felt heat rising to his face and shifted a bit, smiling apologetically when he jostled the woman beside him.  He knew why that particular memory had surfaced at that particular moment -- very few people were large enough to manhandle Dean the way he liked, so it was small wonder that thoughts of his size had triggered such a memory.  He didn’t consider himself to be very much into BDSM, but he liked the sensation of being covered, of having someone else’s weight on top of him, of being held and caressed and solid, safe, secure…okay, _maybe_ he was very _slightly_ into it.  Maybe.

He severed that line of thought before he scandalized the lady beside him with an inappropriate boner.  Because who popped a boner on a _bus??_

His thoughts drifted back to the matter at hand.  Dean had exchanged numbers with Cas, had promised to call him within a few days, and all but begged him to be friends when Cas had shown trepidation…

And what had _that_ beenabout, anyway?  According to Cas, he was debilitatingly awkward around people he didn’t know very well, which included just about everyone in the world except for his siblings.  Why the _hell_ was he so comfortable around Dean, then?  What exactly had happened at that bar?  Dean assumed that they had talked for at least a little while before making the the oh-so-smart decision to _go home together and have amazinghotwonderful sex_ , but he could barely remember speaking two words to the man.  Getting fucked into the mattress, yes.  Actually having a conversation before this morning, no.  Drunk brains were weird like that.  Whatever it was that Dean was missing, however, apparently made Cas comfortable, confident, and happy to be around him.

And he was one of the only people in the world who could do that for him.  And dammit, Cas deserved to be happy and comfortable in his own skin.  He was kind, passionate, caring...

But…

But how was this even going to work?  How was Dean going to be able to hang out with the guy without randomly thinking about what it might feel to stick is tongue in Cas’s ass?  Or remembering just how _incredible_ their night together had been.  Or wondering just what it might be like if maybe, _maybe_ he tried the whole coming-out-of-the-closet thing again...with Cas.

Dammit.

Dean wasn’t an asshole.  He liked to pretend he was, sometimes, and he never had been the most emotionally intuitive.  Even so, he had been able to see, clear as day, the way Cas had lit up at every bit of sustained conversation, every compliment, every time Dean had accepted his hospitality in the form of food, headache medicine, fucking _coconut water..._ thinking back on it, the man’s entire demeanor had screamed _I have a friend! I have a friend!_ despite his lack of faith in his ability to maintain a friendship.

It had been settled before Dean had even extended his spontaneous offer of friendship.  One look at Cas’s sad-teddy-bear-face when he’d mentioned leaving and that had been it.

Dean leaned back on his seat, breathed through his nose, and tried to accept that there was no _whump_ of perfect hindsight coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, a chapter from Cas's perspective! We'll be able to get into his head a bit and see just why he's able to relate to Dean so well, so quickly.
> 
> Also...it is with great sadness that I have learnt that my family will be traveling in August, and I cannot participate in GISHWHES. Please, if you are gishing, gish a good gish for me.


	4. Making friends is hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) Ctrl+’ will insert the value of the above cell into the cell currently selected.
> 
> 2) Bees should not be provoked, for the sakes of the both the beekeepers and the bees.
> 
> 3) Generally, continuous eye contact is frowned upon amongst new acquaintances. And finally,
> 
> 4) Making friends is hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN AGES  
> I'M SO SORRY  
> I'm on vacation right now with my family, so things have been rough, but HERE, HAVE A CHAPTER FROM CAS'S POINT OF VIEW! Gosh, Pixie Gabe the PocketMuse (TM) would not leave me alone for this one!
> 
> Also, note the rating change. Teehee! ;)
> 
> ONWARD

Castiel had Rules.  They were everywhere, permeating his life like a mess of swirling odors, spilling out from some hidden source.  He had forgotten the origins of some, while he remembered that of others far too well.  There were rules for his numbers and spreadsheets, lined up in neat little rows, all contented to stay in their little cells and let their patterns unfold under the watchful eye of Castiel Edlund, Senior Accountant.  There were rules for his beloved bees, strictly observed and tenderly executed by Castiel Edlund, Amateur Urban Beekeeper.  And then, there were rules for social interaction in all its unfortunate variety, very poorly understood and attended to by Castiel Edlund, Very Awkward Person.

Some such rules were as follows:

    1. Ctrl+’ will insert the value of the above cell into the cell currently selected.
    2. Bees should not be provoked, for the sakes of the both the beekeepers and the bees.
    3. Generally, continuous eye contact is frowned upon amongst new acquaintances.  And finally,
    4. __Making friends is hard.__



 

 

And yet…

And yet, Castiel seemed to have made one quite easily.  By accident, if he really thought about it.

Castiel frowned slightly as he watched Dean Winchester (his new  _ friend! _ ) board the bus, left hand still clutching the phone that Dean had just minutes ago programmed his number into, before saving Castiel’s number into his own phone.  As the bus rounded the corner, Castiel absurdly raised his hand in farewell, before realizing that Dean probably couldn’t see him.  Lowering his hand slowly, he sighed, then pivoted and made his way back down the sidewalk towards his house.

Five more minutes found him in his bedroom for the first time since he had awakened to an upset stomach, a headache, and a Strange Bedfellow that morning.  He scowled down at his laundry basket, which had somehow been knocked over, spilling mismatched socks, and, inexplicably, a lime green ski mask he wasn’t previously aware of owning, all over the bedroom floor.  Averting his eyes from the frankly alarming shade of green peeking out from under his more sensible blues and greys (and purple with guinea pigs, but no one needed to know that), Castiel now gazed at the bed.  The sheets were rumpled, the blankets in a state of unprecedented disarray, and the pillows…

...both pillows sported a shallow dent near the middle, proof that more than one person had had a hand in creating the muddle that was Castiel’s bed this morning.  Castiel picked his way over his assorted laundry items, and sank slowly down at the end of his bed.

Up until some Very Rash Decision-Making, yesterday had been...not much different than the days before.  Or the weeks before, or the months.  Much as Castiel was loathe to admit it, it had been several years since there had been any sort of variation in his life.  He tended his numbers, tended his bees, listened to Gabriel simultaneously whine about and endorse his bakery, listened in awe when Anna regaled him with her many adventures, tried not to yawn as Michael and Lucifer, well-meaning as they might be (sort of?), rambled on and on about corporate whatnots and the latest gossip of high society, frowned when Hannah called, exhausted, after a shift at the hospital, and scolded as Samandriel admitted to pulling yet  _ another _ all-nighter before finals.

But yesterday...something had snapped.

_ “Clarence. Pssst.  Clarence!” _

_ Castiel squinted over the flimsy walls of his cubicle to find mischievous dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face peering down at him. _

_ “My name is Castiel…” he mumbled. _

_ “Whatever.  You coming tonight?  It’s Balthy’s birthday.  He’s hosting a party or something at his house.  Well, I’m pretty sure he said ‘orgy,’ but I’m about eighty-five percent sure he was kidding.”  Castiel frowned.  Balthy?  Perhaps Margaret meant Balthazar, whom he only knew by sight.  Scruffy hair, low v-necks, a good ten years or so older than him, and apparently turning another year older. _

_ Castiel cast about for a response.  “Many happy returns of the day?” _

_ Margaret rolled her eyes.  “Are you coming or not, Clarence?” _

_ “Castiel.” _

_ “What, never seen ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’?” _

_ “No.” _

_ Margaret’s eyes pinched at the corners, as if she was frowning.  “Wow, okay.” _

_ A crease appeared between Castiel’s eyes, and his hands twitched involuntarily from where they rested on his keyboard.  The awkward pause now swamping the both of them was a veritable indication that this conversation was dwindling fast, and yet there were still  _ eyes  _ staring at him from the cubicle walls, expecting something from him, wanting him to say something…what were they talking about?  Orgies? _

_ “The last orgy I went to was nine years ago.  I’d rather not delve into that particular habit again.” _

_ Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say, as Margaret’s eyebrows shot up faster than a cork popping from a bottle.  He hastened to correct his mistake. _

_ “Not that they were a frequent occurrence.  Only when I had time between school, church, and beekeeping, so only about once every few months while I was at University.” _

_ In attempting to provide some reassurance, Castiel had apparently exacerbated the situation, as Margaret’s eyebrows were now climbing to impossible heights.  The cubicle wall still covered the rest of her face, but he got the distinct impression that her mouth was open behind it. _

_ Castiel closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose.  Now that he couldn’t see her eyes, he regained some semblance of a verbal filter and tried again. _

_ “Please inform Balthazar that I send him my good wishes, and I regret that I must decline his invitation to partake in whatever carnal festivities he may or may not have organized in celebration of his birthday.”  He chanced a peek back over the edge of the divider. _

_ Margaret’s eyebrows were now pinched together.  Castiel imagined that she was frowning beyond the wall. _

_ “You good, Clarence?” _

_ “Castiel.” _

_ “Right.  Everything okay?” _

_ Castiel blinked.  “Of course.” _

_ The eyebrows relaxed slightly, eyes once again lit up with mirth.  “And here I was calling you an angel, while you’ve been a unicorn this whole time, haven’t you?” _

_ Castiel frowned again.  “I don’t know what that means.” _

_ Margaret snorted.  “Of course you don’t.  And there’s nothin’ wrong with that, mind.  Just...” a pause.  “You’ll be fine.” _

_ Castiel nodded slowly.  This conversation had very quickly gone beyond his depth, and he wanted it over. _

_ “Um...goodbye, Margaret.” _

_ “Meg.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “I know it says ‘Margaret’ on my cubicle, but everyone calls me Meg.”  Castiel winced.   _ Of course...

_ “My apologies, Meg.”  Meg gave a cheeky wink and a “no worries, unicorn,” before disappearing back into her own cubicle.  Castiel slumped in his seat, his stiff fingers relaxing.  He wanted a drink. _

Castiel snorted to himself.  Perhaps mentioning his college habits had not been the best decision.  What was the phrase?   _ Hindsight is always 20/20.   _ Still, yesterday’s interaction with Meg ( _ Meg, not Margaret) _ was unfortunately very indicative of his approach to social interaction -- forget all the rules, flounder a bit, and eventually babble something halfway coherent and entirely embarrassing.

Castiel shut his eyes briefly as he recalled making his way to the bar later that evening.  He wasn’t sure what had prompted that particular venture; if he went for a drink every time he emerged from a failed social encounter, his liver would have given out years ago.  No, perhaps it had been the reminder of his wilder, orgy-filled days.  No one had ever expected him to make small talk at a sex party, so he had found them as good an outlet for everyday frustration as any.  However, his plan last night had not been to indulge in such activities again -- he had been telling Meg the truth when he had said that his orgy days were behind him.  No, he just wanted a raw environment to indulge in a different purported vice, alcohol, and not talk to anyone.  Seedy bar on the edge of town it was.

_ The bar was dark.  A group of large, smelly individuals were playing pool in the corner, while a surprisingly diverse cast permeated the tables.  An aura of grit, smoke, and desperation gave the place an almost otherworldly haze, one Castiel heartily approved of.  The more surreal his experiences tonight, the more easily he would be able to compartmentalize this night and return to his real life in the morning. _

_ He had not anticipated being doused in beer and knocked off his feet, however. _

_ “Oh shit, man, I’m sorry!  Here--” and Castiel was hauled upright, dripping in cheap alcohol.  His attacker-now-rescuer swayed unsteadily before him, looking down forlornly at the spilled drink, before flicking his eyes back up to meet Castiel’s, and -- _

_ Oh. _

Green.

_ “I…” for the second time that day, Castiel found himself flushed and floundering, pinned under a pair of eyes. _

_ The other man -- eyes like peridot, face that could make the golden ratio fuck off and die, constellations painted in freckles across his face -- broke eye contact to pout at his spilled drink again.  The glass, while having miraculously survived the fall, was now empty, its contents puddled uselessly around their feet.  Feeling rather uncertain of his clearly inebriated companion’s ability to bend over far enough to pick the glass back up without collapsing on the ground himself, Castiel quickly scooped it up and held it out to the other man.  The stranger blinked slowly at him before grinning toothily. _

_ “Thanks.”  Reaching out unsteadily, he grasped the glass and tugged it towards himself. Castiel belatedly realized that he had yet to let go -- instead, he was pulled towards the man along with the glass, and he stumbled again before stopping, half a step before him. _

_ “You…” up close, the green eyes were glassy, the man clearly well past his limit.  The eyes narrowed, and Castiel was gripped with sudden anxiety.  Had he insulted the man without his knowledge?  It wouldn’t be the first time... _

_ “Excuse me, I didn’t mean--” He had yet to let go of the glass. _

_ “You smell like beer.” _

_ Castiel blinked. _

_ “You spilled it on me.”  Not accusatory, but the man frowned. _

_ “I did not!”  Righteous indignation burned away any remnants of an apology that Castiel had yet to dredge up. _

_ “You most certainly did!  You knocked me over, spilled your drink on me, and then--” _

_ “Oh, yeah…” The man frowned down at his empty glass again.  Castiel noted that he was still clutching it with his left hand, but this level of proximity was fogging up his mind.  Dimly, as the man blinked back up at him with a kind of drunken contrition, Castiel wondered if it was possible to achieve secondhand intoxication. _

_ God, he needed that drink. _

_ Meanwhile, the stranger was brightening up slightly, and swayed forward as if to impart a great secret. _

_ “I can buy more.”  Castiel barely refrained from rolling his eyes. _

_ “You go do that.”  He attempted to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs, but the stranger quickly gripped his forearm with surprising strength, given the amount he had supposedly imbibed.  He mustered up a glare. _

_ The stranger pouted.  “I don’ wanna go back by myself…” he whined. _

_ “You seem to have been doing just fine without my presence.” _

_ “Yeah, but no one’s talkin’ to me!  ‘Sides, it’s your fault I don’ have a beer anymore!” _

_ “MY fault?  You’re the one who dumped your drink all over me!” _

_ “But you didn’ stop me!” _

_ “Are you always this immature?”  The stranger’s face fell. _

_ “Yeah…” he mumbled.  “‘S what he said...too damn immature...just stick to the garage…”  Castiel tilted his head.  Should he even ask…? _

_ “What garage?”  The man sighed, then swayed from the force of his exhale.  Castiel found himself gripping the man’s left shoulder in an effort to hold him up. _

_ “Pop’s garage...Dad said I can’t go…”  Castiel’s brow furrowed. _

_ “Your father owns a garage?”  The man grimaced. _

_ “My POPS owns a garage...and Dad says I can’t...but I can...don’ need him...I raised Sammy right...raised JoJo too…”  The man swayed alarmingly again.  “I can...I can do anything...don’ need him to…” he blinked rapidly, let out a softly growled “motherfucker…” and Castiel was alarmed to see that the man’s glassy eyes now turned liquid.  Suddenly inexplicably invested in distracting his man (secondhand drunkenness, it had to be.  And proximity.  Fuck proximity) Castiel blurted out the first thing he could think of in the hopes that it would be awkward enough to prove distracting. _

_ He wasn’t disappointed. _

_ “I’m here tonight because I told my coworker that I used to participate in orgies when she invited me to another coworker’s birthday party.” _

_ The man blinked. _

_ “You...wha??” _

_ “I did, you know.”  Castiel found himself soldiering on without the faintest idea of where his sudden absurd burst of courage was coming from.  All he wanted, at any cost, was to make the other man stop crying.  “I was in orgies.  Many orgies. With men, women, and people outside the gender binary.  I’ve never had sex outside an orgy, because that involves talking to people.” _

_ The other man was now gaping like a fish. _

_ “I’m bad at that.” _

_ The stranger closed his mouth with an audible click. _

_ “Yeah, I’d say so.”  Castiel nodded, then balked at the studying squint of the man’s eyes.  Well, then.  He’d thoroughly embarrassed himself, but his green-eyed companion was now dry-eyed, whatever that had plagued him now forgotten in favor of examining Castiel with the same interest that a biologist would examine a microbe.  Time to make a strategic retreat. _

_ Castiel’s attempt to pull away, however, were foiled when the man beamed brightly and tossed an arm around his shoulders, effectively steering him towards the bar. _

_ “What are you doing?”  His voice came out strangled and small. _

_ “‘M buying you a drink.” _

_ “Why?”  The man grinned, then stumbled.  Castiel instinctively gripped him once again and pulled him upright. _

_ “‘Cause I wanna hear more about these orgies.” _

_ “Ummm…” _

Castiel let out a groan and dropped his head into his hands.  He still had no idea what had possessed him to accept that first drink from Dean, but one drink had become two, then three, then…

_ Castiel’s drink sloshed dangerously within its glass as he waved his hand through the air. _

_ “‘And...and then I told her that it wasn’t her fault her father had left her.  He probably just hated his job at the post office!” _

_ The man roared with laughter, slamming his glass down and nearly toppling off his seat. _

_ “Oh man...what did she do then?”  Castiel sighed. _

_ “She tossed her drink in my face and had the bouncer throw me out.”  The stranger howled. _

_ “Man, you really weren’t lying when you said you couldn’t pick up chicks for shit.”  Castiel squinted. _

_ “That’s not what I--” the man waved his hand, and Castiel ducked. _

_ “Same thing.”  The man smiled faintly, then burped lightly.  Castiel, absurdly, giggled. _

_ “‘S not so bad, though…” he trailed off.  Castiel blinked at him expectantly. _

_ “What’s not so bad?” _

_ “Still got to have sex...I’ve never been to an orgy, you know?”  Castiel inclined his head slowly, as to prevent it from toppling off. _

_ “Most people haven’t.” _

_ “Yeah, but you got to sleep with chicks AND dudes...and, you know, other people too...at the same friggin’ time!  Dude, how cool is that?”  He sighed dreamily, and Castiel squinted at him, head tilted. _

_ “Do you wish to cap-capilut-copulate with men?”  The stranger sputtered, nearly knocking over his glass once again.  Castiel ducked a second time. _

_ “I--I mean--I just--there’s no--I can’t, okay?”  He shook his head rapidly, looking for all the world like a puppy getting out of the bath.  “I-I don’t mess around with guys.”  Nodding firmly at himself several times, the other man evidently decided that a change of subject was in order.  Subtly, of course.  “Did you know that my little brother jumped off the roof when he was eight?” _

_ “Mm?”  Subtlety was overrated, anyway.  It’s wasn’t like Castiel had any experience with it. _

_ “Yeah, though he could fly.  We were playin’ superheroes, see?” _

_ “I see.” _

_ “Yeah, an’ he broke his arm, too.  I rode him to the hospital on my handlebars, with my sister holding on to me like a backpack.  Ma screamed at us for hours.” _

_ “You obvio--obivishly--obviously take good care of your siblings.”  The other man chuckled darkly. _

_ “Nah, man, didn’t you hear?  He broke his arm!” _

_ “After which you took both him and your little sister to the hospital by yourself, on a bicycle meant for one.  That cannot have been easy.”  The man shrugged, staring at his nearly empty glass.  Seized again with the need to comfort the man, Castiel reached out unsteadily and grasped his left shoulder, bringing his face about two inches from the other man’s.  At some point between one drink at the next, the proximity had ceased to bother him. _

_ “You…” he rumbled, dropping his voice to an even lower register an in attempt to impart the significance of his words.  Before him, black pupils dilated in green eyes.  “You are a good brother.  You are...better than good.  You are... _ righteous.”   _ Castiel leaned back, releasing the man, and nodded several times.  “You are a righteous man!” he proclaimed triumphantly. _

_ The other man’s cheeks had taken on a slight flush, lips --  _ deliciously pink,  _ Castiel noted -- parted slightly.  The man ducked his head, glancing up at Castiel through golden eyelashes. _

_ “You’re pretty cool too, y’know…” he mumbled.  Castiel shook his head vigorously, then growled at the world for spinning. _

_ “I’m not good at--” _

_ “Yeah, yeah, you say awkward crap.” The man waved his hand dismissively, finally succeeding in knocking over his glass.  “So what?  There’s other stuff to do than talking outta our asses all day.  You’re a--a good guy.” _

_ A bright glow ignited, somewhere deep in Castiel’s gut, warming him from the inside-out until he was sure his face glowed with the same light. _

_ The man wasn’t finished talking. _

_ “An’ you’ve been talkin’ to me all night, haven’t you?”  Castiel paused, then cocked his head and thought.  Had he?  It seemed..but did he really…? _

_ “I...I have….I have!”  The realization flooded through him slowly, and he barked a disbelieving laugh at the accomplishment.  The glow in his body was surely now radiating from his every orifice.  “I’ve been speaking to you for…” he spared a glance at the wall clock, “three hours, and you haven’t run away yet!”  He nearly crowed. _

_ The other man’s face executed an odd little contortion before settling between amused and pitying.  Fuck, those were lovely eyes, especially when they went all soft like that. _

_ “Yeah,” he breathed.  “Yeah, you’re doin’ real good.”  He got up and stumbled towards Castiel, tugging at him until he slid off his stool as well.  Castiel went willingly, expecting a handshake or a clap on the back.  Instead, the two of them ended up slumped against each other, holding each other up, as the green-eyed man patted his back clumsily. _

_“Doin’ real good…”  Castiel sighed and_ thunked _his head against the other man’s, who grunted softly and buried his face in his neck._

_ Them remained that way for ten seconds. _

_ Twenty seconds. _

_ Forty-five. _

_ “Umm…” said Castiel.  The man burrowed deeper into his neck, his other arm coming up to rest against Castiel’s waist.  Castiel felt the soft fluff of the other man’s hair against his collarbone, and shivered. _

_ “Are you…?” asked Castiel.  The man sighed against his neck, the hot air tingling across his skin pleasantly. _

_ “Oh…” groaned Castiel, and the man gave a happy sigh and nuzzled at his neck...chin...cheek… _

_ Their eyes met. _

_ “Um.”  said Castiel. _

Green.

_ “Hey,” breathed the other man.  His jaw looked ridiculously lickable. _

_ “Hello.” _

_ Castiel licked his lips.  The man’s eyes dipped down to watch. _

_ “Do you...are you…?”  The man was still staring at his mouth, flicking his eyes upwards for fractions of a second before looking back down.  His blush darkened. _

_ “Yes,” said Castiel. _

Castiel wasn’t sure how they had gotten home.  He hoped there had been a taxi involved.  Or a Lyft.  Or  _ something. _

He hummed lightly, a smile creeping onto his face without his consent as he recalled the events after.

_ It took Castiel three tries to unlock his door, the weight of the other man’s gaze...and his body...heavy on him, and his coordination shot to hell in his current state of drunkenness.  The door gave unexpectedly, the two kicking the door shut and stumbling through the dark hall like a many-limbed creature.  Then-- _

_ \--another door-- _

_ \--clothes-- _

_ \--bed-- _

_ \--lips, hot and sweet, trailing fire up Castiel’s naked chest.  His hand came to rest on the other man’s head as he began to suckle at Castiel’s nipple with a gentleness that belied the physical strength displayed at the bar.  Castiel sighed and tipped his head back, his hand finding purchase in the man’s hair as he began nibbling and nipping, teeth scraping hotly against Castiel’s skin. _

_ The man switched to the other side, breathing slowly over Castiel’s nipple before attacking it with more vigor than he had the other side, as if deciding once and for all to commit to this evening’s debauchery.  Castiel felt a weight against his leg, the other man having begun lightly grinding his cock against his thigh.  Castiel smoothed his other hand down the stranger’s back and clutched his hip, rubbing small circles into his flesh and coaxing out a moan, which reverberated through his body from where the man’s mouth was still licking at Castiel’s nipple. _

_ Castiel’s cock was fully hard, straining up from his body as the man rubbed his stubble against Castiel’s chest.  The action caused his abdomen to brush lightly against Castiel’s tip, smearing precome across his stomach, and sensation shivered its way through Castiel’s body.  With a growl, he gripped the man’s biceps and rolled him backwards until he was laid out on his back, eyes hooded and dark and fixated on Castiel’s form, which hovered above him. _

_ Castiel dove in and bit his way up the man’s neck, eliciting a hoarse shout, before latching onto the pulse point and sucking a bruise.  The man’s legs had parted naturally when Castiel had flipped them, and now they rose up to grip his hips as the man ground up, his cock meeting Castiel’s frantically as he moaned his approval. _

_ Castiel smiled against the man’s neck as he ground down, his cock sliding against the other -- ohfucksogood -- the other man babbling below him, both hands fixed in Castiel’s hair.  A little tug had Castiel moaning, hips stuttering as he thrust his cock down harder, the man giving a pleased little whimper.  The alcohol was still fogging up his brain, the room still spinning, and he continued his slow, dirty grind against the other man’s cock. _

_ Castiel rose slightly, hips still circling against the stranger’s own, and glance down at the flushed cheeks and freckles...so many freckles!  He bent down and began to sloppily lip at them, his tongue tracing constellations across the man’s face while his hips moved below.  The man gasped as Castiel pressed a wet kiss to his cheek, then sucked at his earlobe. _

_ Drawing back slightly, Castiel’s eyes lowered to plush, pink lips.  Under his gaze, they parted once more, hot puffs of breath reaching him above.  The man bucked his hips under Castiel’s and tugged at his hair, and he went willingly, his first taste of those lips igniting between them, both sets of arms curling around them and clinging tight as they explored each other’s mouths.  The man licked up into his, and Castiel permitted him entrance, his tongue meeting the other man’s in an almost playful tangle.  Castiel stroked up and down the man’s side, drawing his hand up again to caress his cheek as they kissed.  The man leaned into the touch, before-- _

_ They were flipped, the stranger now perched above Castiel, Castiel on his back, looking up into the impish grin and dilated green eyes.  The room had spun as they had rolled, and now kept twirling in fractals around them, no doubt an effect of the alcohol, and Castiel was brought dizzyingly higher as the man settled back and began to grind his ass against Castiel’s dick, slotting it neatly between his cheeks while the man’s cock bobbed enticingly before him.  The slide of his cock against the man’s ass nearly had Castiel’s eyes rolling back in his head, while the other man threw his head back and moaned at the friction against his hole. _

_ Castiel let his hands settle along the man’s hips, his thumbs tracing the sharp jut of his hipbones, and the man glanced down at him and bit his lip almost coquettishly, his hip never faltering in the figure eight they made against Castiel’s cock. _

_ “Is this what you want?” Castiel rumbled quietly.  The man nodded shyly, so completely at odds with the wanton motions of his body. _

_ Castiel reached towards his nightstand, fumbling a bit before drawing out a bottle of lube and a packet of condoms -- he would have to thank Gabriel later for insisting on keeping him well-stocked, despite his nonexistent social life -- but he didn’t want to think about his brother, not while he was now sitting up, the other man still straddling his hips, the pad of his index finger teasing lightly against the man’s hole.  The man pitched forward, catching his forehead against Castiel’s and huffed out a breath as Castiel’s finger breached the tight ring of muscle, hesitating only slightly before beginning to thrust his wonderfully tight heat further down onto Castiel’s finger.  He managed to slide down to the first knuckle before Castiel caught his hip tightly with his other hand and held him still. _

_ “No,” he growled.  The man whined, still resting his forehead against Castiel’s, and Castiel rubbed his nose against his.  “Not yet,” he murmured, and soothed the man’s pout with a gentle kiss.  His fingers stroked where he held the man’s hips in a tight grip, preventing him from thrusting down any further.  “I don’t want to hurt you.” _

_ “You won’t,” the man rasped, nosing at Castiel’s stubble and breathing hot against his neck.  He squirmed against Castiel’s grip, and Castiel frowned. _

_ With a deftness that was remarkable for one so far under the influence, Castiel slid out from under the man and allowed him to pitch forward, catching himself on his arms.  Meanwhile, Castiel was scooting around the man until he settled behind him, slipping his lube-slick finger back into his hole and beginning to fuck him slowly with it while holding the man’s hips firmly in place with his left hand.  This position afforded Castiel much more control over the situation, and judging by the change in pitch of the man’s little gasps, he wasn’t the only one pleased, however reluctantly, by this development. _

_ Castiel fucked his finger deeper and deeper into the man’s hole, marvelling at the clench of his muscles as they tried to draw his finger back in every time he pulled out.  He fumbled with the lube a bit before pressing a second finger in, drawing soothing little circles on the man’s hip with his other hand as he gasped and sighed below him. _

_ Two fingers became three, the man’s hips now bucking below him as he scissored his fingers and twisted them in deeper.  As he grazed against the man’s prostate the man made a strangled noise and bit out “now, now, fuck me now, please--” _

_ Castiel removed his fingers completely, making soothing noises at the ensuing indignant noise, and hurriedly rolled a condom down his cock and slicked his length with lube, groaning at the contact.  He guided his cock down to where the other man was rutting against the bedsheets, admiring the enticing arch of his back, before allowing the head of his cock to catch against his hole. _

_ The man shuddered a breath, pushing back where Castiel had already caught his hips and held them still.  He eased into him, drawing back slightly on every stroke before thrusting in a little farther, until he was sheathed fully in the other man. _

_ \--ohtighthotgoodyesyesyes-- _

_ Castiel had to pour every remaining ounce of his concentration into to not coming, then and there, while the other man wiggled unhappily around his stationary cock.  He smiled slightly and drew a soothing hand across his back, thumbing the knobs of his spine and wondering at the freckles sprinkled across the smooth surface. _

_ He drew his hips back slightly and began thrusting forward, draping himself across the man’s back as he nipped at his neck, dragging his cock against his lover’s prostate and delighting as his moans became louder and breathier. _

_ “More--” _

_ “God, yeah--” _

_ “Harder, fuck me harder!” _

_ Castiel began to pick up the pace, finally allowing his partner to rock himself back to meet each thrust as they lost themselves to the heat of sensation, while the universe spun faster and faster around them.  Speed increasing incrementally, Castiel’s arms affixed themselves around the man’s chest as he pressed moans, oaths, and growls into freckled skin, chasing constellations with his chapped lips. _

_ Castiel was thrusting in earnest now, his lover crying out beneath him and turning slightly to catch his eye over his shoulder.  Castiel brought his head up to nuzzle the man’s cheek, but the angle was wrong, all wrong -- _

_ By silent mutual agreement, they pulled apart just long enough for the man to flip over on the bed and draw Castiel down between his legs and guide him back into his heat.  Castiel began thrusting once more, this time kissing at the man’s cheeks and biting at his lips again, while the man locked his legs around him, drawing him impossibly deeper.  Castiel moaned into his neck, the man shuddering as the vibrations travelled through his body. _

_ Castiel raised himself up on one elbow and reached down with his other arm to grasp the man’s cock, only to raise an eyebrow in surprise when the man batted his hand away and tugged him down, so that his own body was now supporting the majority Castiel’s weight, rather than Castiel’s elbow.  The man, now with his cock trapped between their stomachs and the weight of Castiel’s body fully blanketing his own, gave a happy sigh and wrapped his arms around Castiel.  He swivelled his hips up to encourage Castiel to continue pounding into him, unrestrained in his gasps of delight. _

_ Between Castiel’s attention to his prostate, the relentless friction against his cock, and the manner in which Castiel lipped at his lips, cheeks, neck, and ears, the man did not last much longer before coming spectacularly.  Castiel felt his body arch under his as he came with shouted curses -- “OH YES, GOD FUCK FUCK” -- his muscles clamping down like a vise around Castiel, his whole body shuddering and shaking while fingernails dug into his back. _

_ Once released from the throes of orgasm, the man seemed to melt into Castiel’s bedspread, a kind of languid pleasure emanating from his entire being.  Castiel gazed down upon him, pounding into him still, and lost himself in the hooded, sleepy eyes that gazed back up at him, cheeks still flushed with exertion and alcohol, plush lips curving into a sweet smile and fingers gently carding through Castiel’s hair.  Seven -- eight -- nine more thrusts, and Castiel came in an explosion of white-hot light as he gasped and shuddered against his lover’s shoulder. _

The rest of the night had been hazy -- at some point the condom must have been disposed of, and sheets had found their way up to cover them both, but the next thing Castiel remembered was waking to the sensation of several hornets engaging in a mosh pit inside his skull, while several iguanas did the same inside his stomach.  He had stumbled off to the bathroom down the hall, not wanting to wake his beautiful stranger.  Crouched on the cold tile, Castiel had emptied his stomach of any alcohol still left undigested and retched bitter bile for a good five minutes.  

After panting against the toilet seat and glaring at the line of daylight that stabbed its way under the bathroom door, he had risen unsteadily and stumbled back down the hall to gather his clothes as quietly as possible.  He had stood above the man -- Dean, he would later learn -- headache temporarily forgotten, and simply gazed down at him, both contented to bask in the early morning afterglow and subject to the knot of worry growing again in his stomach.

He had frowned then, and had examined the knot growing in his stomach.  With a little flutter, he had realized that the anxiety now building within was not in regards to the stranger himself -- after the events of last night, he felt no fear or awkwardness at the thought of speaking to the man, all barriers between them having been stripped away in an alcohol-and-sex-induced whirl.  He supposed it had something to do with them having already seen each other at rock-bottom, with no further expectations to meet.  No, it was protocol that had Castiel stalling now.

What was he to do now?  Castiel had never had to deal with the “morning after” scenario.  What was correct behavior here?  What should he say?  How long would his guest stay?  Another throb in his head had made his decision for him -- attend to the headache first, then decide what to do.

Dressing quickly in boxer-briefs and sweatpants -- his shirt had been soaked through with beer, and he elected to leave it off for now -- he had made his way back to the kitchen, where Castiel had quickly downed some coconut water and crackers before popping a couple tablets of Excedrin.  That done, the next step had become apparent -- he couldn’t just thrust some crackers and medicine at a  _ guest.   _ Castiel would cook him breakfast.

And so he had, arranging the bacon on the pan as he had allowed the events of last night to wash over him.  He had spoken to a stranger -- a  _ beautiful  _ man -- a man who thought that his awkwardness wasn’t a barrier to any sort of conversation, who was willing to spend time with him...to speak with him…to  _ have sex  _ with him…

All of this, despite his inability to interact with anyone outside of his family without driving them away with the complete lack of filter and crippling bluntness that reared their ugly heads whenever he found himself in any sort of uncomfortable social situation.

But this green-eyed man didn’t care.  The green-eyed man had held him close, smiled up at him so sweetly, gasped and moaned around his cock, had called him “pretty cool”...Castiel had found himself grinning and humming as he stood over the pan, swinging his hips lightly.

And then he had turned, and the man had been there, pale and swaying and looking like he was about to pass out, and Castiel had practically flown across the kitchen to aide him.  Castiel had learnt his name, had learnt of his aspirations, had seen the color return to his cheeks, and while he had been getting caught up in that smile, the voice, in Dean’s green,  _ green  _ eyes, social interaction suddenly had become the easiest thing in the world…

...and had somehow, in the midst of it all, Castiel had received both a nickname and an offer of friendship.

They had exchanged numbers after Castiel had walked Dean to the bus stop.  Dean had clapped him on the shoulder and given him another one of those fond glances -- and when had Dean begun the view him with fondness?  This was all very new and muddled, and Castiel was certain that they had surely missed a few steps, or that perhaps they shouldn’t be embarking on this friendship at all, even considering Dean’s promises of  _ buddy stuff _ ...but no, that thought clawed at his chest like a rabid weasel, any and all unoccupied fragments of his mind put immediately to work beating away that thought in a visceral reaction that was frankly startling.

Castiel pitched backwards across the bed, now on his back and staring up at the ceiling, blankets still askew around him...he had a  _ friend _ …

...why had it been so easy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks at y'all from between my fingers*  
> So...I just wrote porn for the first time ever...in my GRANDPARENTS' HOUSE.
> 
> Also, please let me know if there are any inaccuracies. I did my best, guys, I'm sorry!
> 
> Last thing: come say hi on tumblr! I used to be theinspirefly, but now I'm anupalya, to match my ao3! Let's be friends!!


	5. Some people are meant to be together forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) If you pick a major you love and are good at, you’ll get a job in your field and you will be able to support yourself as an independent adult.
> 
> 2) You will not father children if you wear a condom.
> 
> 3) Family always looks out for one another. And finally,
> 
> 4) Some people are meant to be together forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY, GUYS! Life has been crazy, and it's about to get crazier, so don't expect regular updates. Still, I hope you enjoy this chapter! We're back to Dean's POV, with no Cas :( HOWEVER, we do see Dean and Benny having the friendship they freaking deserved.
> 
> Lastly, this might not be the most appropriate place for it, but all my love goes to the victims of Hurricane Maria and the Las Vegas Shooting. I am outraged on the behalf of everyone who has been affected by these events, and ashamed of our government for its responses to both.

There are rules, and there are Rules, profound truths that none can dispute, yet everyone has seen ripped to shreds at least once.  No one truly knows where they came from, and no one understands what to do when one such Rule is broken immediately before them.  Numbering amongst such brittle, ubiquitous rules are:

 

    1. If you pick a major you love and are good at, you’ll get a job in your field and you will be able to support yourself as an independent adult.
    2. You will not father children if you wear a condom.
    3. Family always looks out for one another.  And finally,
    4. __Some people are meant to be together forever.__



 

Dean was elbow-deep in car guts when he got the call.

At the first sudden chords of _Simple Man,_ Dean’s head shot up and thwacked against the hood.  Much creative swearing that would have certainly sentenced him to a slap upside the head from his Ma followed as Dean wiped his hands on a rag and grabbed his phone, squinting down at the caller id:  “Benny.”  A quick glance at the time confirmed that he still had three hours before he got off work, and Benny never called during work or school hours if he could help it.  Anxiety curled in Dean’s gut as he picked up.

“Benny?  Everything okay?”

“ _Dean…”_ Benny’s voice was shaking.  Dean’s hackles immediately rose.

“Benny, what happened?”

“ _I…”_ Benny’s voice broke.

“Benny, you’re scaring me, man.  Deep breath, okay?”  Dean heard the _woosh_ as Benny exhaled.

“ _It’s...it’s over_.”

Dean allowed his eyes to fall shut.  The breath he had been reserving to call for help, should Benny need it, now escaped harshly.  He had known it would happen, but…

But Benny and Andrea were meant to be together.  Right?

No.  Not anymore.

“I’ll be right there.”

It was small work asking Pops for the rest of the day off.  Bobby Singer knew his kids, and he knew full well that Dean wouldn’t just ditch work for no reason -- he had raised him better than that after all.  Dean’s pale face, hand still clutched around his phone, had been all the reason he needed to bestow a “well, go on then, idjit,” upon his eldest and see him off.  That boy needed to stop working weekends, anyway.

The drive to Benny’s was a blur.  Benny and Andrea had been “taking a break” for four months now, and Dean wasn’t even sure how it had happened.  Andrea...Andrea had been Benny’s rock while he was getting sober.  She had visited him in rehab, she and Dean had coordinated his homecoming and subsequent re-entry into society, everyone in their friend group had admired her drive...and somewhere, in the midst of it all they had just...drifted.  It had been so subtle that no one outside of Benny and Andrea themselves had even noticed it until it had become obvious how much they had both changed.

Perhaps they had still had some growing to do; with everything surrounding Benny’s drinking and rehab and Andrea getting her feet under her after grad school and getting a job, their individual growth seemed to have been put on hold.  Once Benny had successfully completed rehab and Andrea and settled in with her new job...well...Dean didn’t know.  Perhaps they just didn’t fit like they used to.

That was a terrifying thought.  How easy was it to fall out of love?

Dean parked outside Benny’s condo and approached cautiously, unsure of what he would find.  He had extracted a promise from Benny, back at rehab -- _if you feel like you’re about to fall off the wagon, call me.  I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care if I’m eating or sleeping or taking a shit or having sex, you call me and I’ll be there._ As far as Dean knew, Benny hadn’t had a drink in two years, but from the way he had sounded on the phone…

Benny met him at the door.  His eyes were bloodshot, but there was no trace of alcohol on his breath.

“Brother…”  Dean pulled him into a hug, and Benny buried his face in Dean’s shoulder.  He didn’t cry.

“Let’s get you inside, okay?”  Benny nodded against Dean’s shoulder and pulled back to arm’s length.

“Brother, I...I want…” his eyes kept flicking away, unable to maintain eye contact.  His face was flushed with embarrassment. “I--”

“I know, Benny,” Dean soothed.  “C’mon.  Let’s go inside and have some coffee.”

“Right.  Coffee, that’s -- that’s a good idea.  I’ve got--” muttering under his breath, Benny led him inside.

Benny was a stress-cleaner.  Andrea had once joked that if Benny and Dean were both upset at the same time, it meant no household chores for her for a week as long as she invited Dean over; Benny would dust and mop and polish and scrub to his heart’s content, while Dean would stress-cook his way through a week’s worth of multi-course meals and ten different kinds of pie.

Now, as Benny and Dean entered the kitchen, Dean did a cursory sweep of the living area and winced.  Everything was spotless.

Benny dug around in his cupboards for mugs while Dean set the coffeemaker to work, all while grumbling about “fancy-ass hippy machines.”  At least Benny used his own coffee beans, and not that crap in the little plastic cups.

Finally settled at the kitchen table, Dean watched warily as Benny stirred four spoons of sugar into his coffee.  Wisely, he withheld his comments.  That was, in until Benny dropped his spoon and swore gratingly in French.

“Benny?”

“You’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?”   _Crap._

“It’s fine, Pops let me off early.”

“Before or after I called?”  Dean forced himself to maintain his outward calm.  Andrea wasn’t Benny’s rock anymore -- that meant that Dean had to be.

“Benny, you remember what I said, right?  No matter where I am or what time it is, you call me and I’ll come.”  Benny gave a choked laugh and gulped at his coffee, wincing at the burn.

“Fuckin’ disgusting.”

“Who told you to put all that sugar in, huh?”

“You shut your mouth.”  Dean rolled his eyes and sipped from his own mug ( _sensible black coffee_ , because he wasn’t a _heathen_ ).

“C’mon, Benny.  Talk to me, man.”  Benny blew out a breath and gulped at his coffee, wincing again.  Dean barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes a second time.

“She just called to end it.  She’s uh...she’s got someone new.”  Dean choked on his coffee.

“That fast?”

“It’s been months, Dean.”  Benny avoided Dean’s eyes in favor of picking at a splinter along the edge of the table.  Dean absently made plans to buy sandpaper, but refocused on the matter at hand when Benny started picking at his nails.   _Shit._

“Benny…”  Benny kept looking at his nails.  “Who is she with?”

Benny mumbled something.

“What?”

“Stefan-”  Dean spat out his coffee.  Benny didn’t even blink.

“Ste--YOUR _STEPDAD_ , STEFAN??!”

“Uh-huh.”

“What the fuck.”

“I know.”

“But he’s--”

“I _know,_ brother.”

“What a bi-”

“NO!”  Benny slammed his mug down with a _crack_ , coffee splattering.  Dean jumped and flinched back from eyes that were now glaring at him for the first time since they had sat down.  “I sure as hell ain’t happy with her right now, but we both knew this was coming and we both let it happen.  And you know Andrea, Dean.  After everything she’s done, she deserves more than you callin’ her a bitch.”

“Benny,” Dean intoned softly.  “Look at you, man.  You’ve been crying, and you’re itching for a drink, and --”

“And I’ll deal with that like a big boy!  Yeah, it fuckin’ sucks.  But she didn’t cheat, and she didn’t lie, and she was honest the whole time, and she’s _allowed to have feelings_.  Just because I don’t like ‘em doesn’t mean she should be demonised for having them.”

“But you’re--”

“I’m pissed at them both, yeah, but we had already agreed to go our separate ways.  We grew apart, and it’s shitty as hell, but that’s what it is, and we’re better for it.”  Benny drew a hand down his face and sighed, the fire seeming to drain from his demeanor all at once.  “That don’t make it any easier, mind.  I mean, my ex-girlfriend wants my stepdad?  My stepdad went after my ex?  What the fuck is this, Dr. Sexy?”  Dean bristled at the jab, but remained silent.  This wasn’t the time or place.

Benny’s lips twitched in a bitter facsimile of a smile.  “Andrea and I haven’t been in love for months, brother.  Everything that happened, we talked it through.”  A tremor appeared in his voice, and Dean’s heart ached.  “We did right by each other by letting each other go, and I jus’ wish…” his voice broke, “I jus’ wish it didn’t have to hurt this much--” his shoulders began shaking and his face crumpled.

Dean quickly pushed their mugs out of the way and shimmied around the table to wrap his arms around his friend as the first sobs broke free.  They stayed in that position until the tears died away, Dean rocking Benny and making soothing noises, just as he had for Sam and Jo, growing up.  Benny wouldn’t let him curse Andrea out loud, and Dean knew she didn’t deserve it, but he wanted to rage against _something_ for making gentle-souled Benny cry.

Eventually, the tears faded, and aside from the occasional sniffle, Benny just slouched with his face buried in Dean’s shirt, sagged against his friend.  Dean started casting about for a way to lighten the mood.

“You get any snot on this shirt, I’ll stuff your newsboy hat up your ass.”

“You’re covered in grease, brother, a little snot ain’t gonna make no difference.” Benny muttered into his chest.  Dean huffed a laugh, and Benny gave a watery chuckle and began extricating his arms from where they’d wormed their way around Dean’s waist.  Dean stepped back and carried their mugs to the sink before rooting around for a washcloth to mop up their spilled coffee.

Benny sighed.  “It’s just cathartic, you know?  She got me through so much...I’d probably have died of alcohol poisoning by now, the way I was going, if you two hadn’t been there…” he shuddered.  “She’s a good person, Dean.  Just because we weren’t right for each other don’t make her evil.”

Dean smiled bitterly.  “I know.”

“Even if she’s got shit taste in men.”  Dean cuffed Benny’s ear with the hand not currently wiping coffee off the kitchen table.

“Don’t sell yourself short.”  

Benny snorted.  “I _meant_ Stefan, dick.”

Dean snickered.  Benny sighed again.

“I just feel...aw, hell, this is turning into a chick-flick, ain’t it?”  Dean dumped the sopping washcloth on his head.  Benny squawked and flailed before yanking the cloth off his face and scowling.

“Shut up, you know I don’t care about that crap.  You try growing up with Jo as your little sister and making it out un-neutered with a ‘girl stuff is gross’ attitude.  ‘Sides, Sheriff Mills?  Biggest chick-flick fan I’ve ever met, and it don’t make her any less scary than my Ma.  You need a chick-flick moment, we’ll have a fucking chick-flick moment, and screw everyone else.”

Benny tossed the washcloth back at Dean, who caught it deftly.  “Everyone else, meaning John?”

Dean crinkled his nose.  “Exactly.  I mean, I’ve still got issues, but if Ma and Pops hadn’t taken us in--”  He was cut off by the sound of Benny’s hand slapping the table and a stream of caustic French.

“He was here yesterday, wasn’t he?  Shit, brother, I forgot--”  Dean waved him off before wringing the washcloth out over the sink.

“It wasn’t a big deal, just the same old crap.”

“Let me hear it, then.”  Benny raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Benny, it’s not important.  You’re--”

“--still craving a drink something fierce, Dean.  Come on, give me a distraction.”

Dean bit his lip, then set the washcloth over the dish drainer and sat back down across from Benny. “Well, he opened with ‘so, have you quit that grad school crap yet?’”

“Classy.”  Benny growled.  Dean gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Then he followed with ‘you know I love you, Dean, but you’re a Winchester.  We’re blue-collar, through and through.’”

Benny pursed his lips.  “Dick.”

“Oh, he was just warming up.”

“He does know that Sam is in law school, right?”

“Yeah, but Sam’s the brainiac, remember?”

“ _Dean.”_

Dean waved a dismissive hand.  “Yeah, yeah.  Anyway, from there, it was all ‘got a great gig at the garage,’ ‘too immature for this,’ and my personal favorite, ‘would you even know what to do with a bunch of kids?’  As if I wasn’t Sammy’s primary caregiver until I was _nine._ ”  He thunked his head against the back of the chair.

Across the table, Benny had murder in his eyes.  “So what did you do then?”

“What do I always do?  Told him to stuff it and got shitfaced.” Dean snapped, then mentally slapped himself.  “Sorry.”

Benny waved a dismissive hand.  “So you went out, got drunk, and got laid?”

‘Yea--hey, I didn’t say anything about getting laid!”

“Hickeys speak louder than words, brother.”   _Hickeys?_  Dean’s mind dredged up the memory of Cas drunkenly lipping at his neck, and he felt his face burn.

“...son of a bitch.”

“Mm-hm.  Feeling better now?”  Dean paused, surveying the kitchen, allowing memories of this morning drift to the forefront of his mind.   _Another kitchen, brighter, more clutter....scrambled eggs and bacon...blue eyes, beautiful smile, Cas..._

A smile slipped its way around Dean’s defenses before he could lock in his poker face.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

Benny raised an eyebrow and said a very loud nothing.

“Shut up.”

More silence.

“Shut the fuck up, Benny.”

Benny sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, dropping his gaze back down to the table.  Dean took the opportunity rake his eyes over the tear tracks that were now drying over his friend’s face, and is chest tightened.  He reached across the table to grip Benny’s arm.

“Hey.”  Benny flicked his eyes up, looking suddenly exhausted.  “Go get washed up and I’ll make you dinner, okay?”

“You don’t have to.”

“You just said you were craving a drink.  I’m not leaving you alone like this.”  A corner of Benny’s mouth twitched up, but there was no humor in it.

“You’ll have to keep distracting me, then.”  Dean grinned and slapped Benny’s arm.

“I know.”

“Tell me more about that lady from last night while we eat?”

_\--hot hard cock, stretching him wide, filling him so good, so good--_

“Ah.  Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Benny. He (and a lot of Dean and Cas's friends and family, actually) have long roads ahead of them. This is a primarily Destiel fic, but there's more going on there, too. XD
> 
> Also, check out my new one-shot, "Hold Your Breath," in which Castiel has the hiccups!

**Author's Note:**

> Questions and comments are always welcome! Your feedback brings me joy!
> 
> Comes say hi on tumblr! I'm anupalya (previously theinspirefly)!


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